The focal point in the room was the fireplace. This was actually a Yorkshire range, so called because it combined an open fire with an adjoining oven. The range also boasted an arm for supporting a kettle or a stew pot over the fire, and a boiler for heating water. All of these elements were built into the one unit which was about four and a half feet in height and the same in width.
The black iron range was surmounted by a heavy polished wood mantelpiece. On this stood a fancy chiming clock, two brass candlesticks, a tobacco jar, a rack holding Alfred’s pipes and a container of spills. The hearth was encircled by a heavy brass fender that was cleaned with Brasso by one of the girls every Friday, and it glittered like gold in the dancing flames of the fire, banked high up the chimney back. Two green-moquette wing chairs flanked the fireplace, faced each other across a large broadloom rug patterned with blood red roses on a deep green background.
In point of fact, roses abounded in this kitchen. They were Eliza’s favourite flowers. Pink and white cabbage roses entwined into garlands flowed down the wallpaper to meet scarlet rambler roses scattered all over the green linoleum; rose-patterned white china filled the shelves of a Welsh dresser positioned in a corner; pillows embroidered with yellow rosebuds marched across the dark green leather sofa set against the far wall.
It was a cheerful room with a gay and welcoming ambience, and it was generally the centre of activity, the heart of the family’s home life. But this morning it was strangely silent and deserted.
Vincent was alone.
He was glad to have peace and quiet for once, to be able to pursue the serious work of picking out his potential winners in absolute tranquillity, without the distracting racket often created by some of his brothers and sisters.
Taking a sip of tea, he continued to peer at the racing newspaper, frowning to himself in his concentration. He had been at this task for almost an hour, and at last he made several selections, wrote down the names of his horses on a scrap of paper, sat staring at the list for a moment. Slowly he nodded his head, satisfied he had made the best choices, then he reached for the packet of Woodbines.
He leaned back in. his chair, sat smoking reflectively.
For no reason at all he suddenly thought of the girl. Again. She had a way of popping into his head when he least expected. He had met her only once in his life, but when he closed his eyes he could see her face so clearly, and in such detail, he might have known her forever.
When he had first noticed her standing near the bonfire in the grounds of the Parish Hall, he had instantly and instinctively understood, and without the benefit of knowing her, that she was not the type of young woman whom a man played around with. She was serious business.
And since he was not interested in being serious with any girl, or of starting a relationship that would lead to the terrible bondage of marriage, he had fled, rushed to the White Horse for a game of darts and a drink with the lads. But just before ten o’clock he had run all the way back to the hall, hoping to have the last waltz with her.
How shy she had been, so stiff and unbending. Her manner and her attitude had put him off, and he had wandered out of the hall, discouraged, and also baffled by her, asking himself why she had bothered to dance with him in the first place. She could have so easily declined his invitation.
But he had been unable to forget her.
Vincent sighed, took a long drag on his cigarette, blew smoke rings up into the air, watched them float away and evaporate as they did. And he decided that thinking about the diminutive Venus de Milo of the bright blue eyes and gorgeous legs was a hopeless waste of time. For one thing, she had apparently evaporated – just like the smoke rings. Ever since bonfire night, he had made a point of popping down to the church dances for a few minutes, looking for her, and he had kept his eyes peeled when he had gone about his business in Armley. He had never once run into her. Furthermore, none of the regulars who attended the church dances every Wednesday and Saturday seemed to know who she was. He had made innumerable inquiries about her for the past two months. The only bit of information he had been able to garner was that her busty blonde girlfriend, also nameless it seemed, was a nurse at the Infirmary. Some good that did him. He knew he had about as much chance of ever meeting Blue Eyes again as a snowball in hell.
Perhaps that’s just as well, he muttered under his breath. All I need is a steady…not bloody likely I don’t.
At this moment the front door flew open so unexpectedly and with such force Vincent sat up with a jerk, looking startled. An icy blast of air blew right through the kitchen, chilling him. It brought with it Laurette and Maggie, two of his three sisters.
They had been to the Co-op to do the weekend shopping and each carried two bags filled to overflowing. They were bundled up in navy-blue winter topcoats, green-and-black tartan tam o’shanters and matching long woollen scarves. The cold wind had given them polished apple cheeks, turned their noses into bright red cherries. Their eyes sparkled and there was such a gaiety and liveliness about them they brought a delighted smile to his face.
‘Hello, Vincent,’ they chorused, grinning at him.
‘Hello, you two beauties,’ he responded, then exclaimed, ‘For God’s sake close that door, Maggie.’
‘Oh, sorry,’ the twelve-year-old girl said, and pushed it with her foot. It banged so hard the frosted-glass panel rattled.
‘Watch that glass!’ Vincent cautioned and shook his head, mildly exasperated with her.
Maggie mumbled, ‘Sorry,’ and followed her elder sister to the counter near the sink, where she deposited her bags of groceries.
Turning to face her brother, starting to unbutton her coat, Laurette said, ‘It’s very quiet in here, Vincent. Where is everybody then?’
‘Upstairs. Or out.’
‘Who’s upstairs?’ Maggie asked, always inquisitive. Shedding her coat she flung it down on the sofa.
‘Hang that up, young lady,’ Laurette instructed, giving her a sharp look.
Maggie pulled a face but she did as she was told. She pressed, ‘Who’s upstairs then?’
‘Our Mam. She’s dusting the front rooms. And Jack, who’s reading to Danny. Mam says he’s got to stay in bed today – because of his bad cold,’ Vincent explained.
‘I knew it! I just knew he wouldn’t be any better!’ Maggie cried shrilly, rolling her eyes dramatically, showing exaggerated alarm. ‘I told Mam that. He coughed and coughed all night. Poor little Danny, he’s always badly. But what can you expect, he’s the runt of the litter.’ She continued to cluck sympathetically like a middle-aged matron of vast experience, then finished in a superior, knowing tone, ‘Change-of-life babies are often weak in health.’
Vincent averted his head, biting down on his laughter. Maggie was a card. None of them ever knew what she would come out with next. His father said she was as old as the hills.
Laurette, however, was not in the least amused and the look she gave her young sister was stern, disapproving. She thought Maggie was impertinent at times, that the girl saw and heard far too much for her age. But Laurette said nothing. She walked over to the cupboard and put her own things away. Then she took a cup and saucer out of the cupboard above the sink, joined Vincent at the table. She lifted the cosy, felt the pot, poured herself a cup of tea, added milk and sugar.
Vincent watched her all the while, his expression loving, caring. He was concerned about Laurette’s well-being at the moment. Just over a year ago she had married their first cousin Jimmy, but it had not worked out. She had come back home to live three months ago, much to his relief. He had believed that particular union to be doomed right from the outset, had never had much time for his cousin, whom he considered to be a bit